


Because of You

by ceterisparibus



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, Good Parent Jessica Whitly, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Parent Gil Arroyo, Protective Gil Arroyo, So much angst, Stabbing, Whipping, Whump, why is this not a tag yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24464557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: "Like this? I'm like this because of Martin Whitly, because of John Watkins, because of you!"
Comments: 74
Kudos: 97
Collections: Prodigal Whump Fic Exchange - Spring 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NazyJayne (MissKira)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKira/gifts).



Gil

You couldn’t be an NYPD lieutenant without making enemies, and that changed the way you lived. Jackie learned after only two weeks of dating not to sneak up on him, even just to throw her arms around him. He never hurt her—it was like his body recognized her even if his mind didn’t and refused to lay a hand on her—but he’d stiffen up, tense with unspent adrenaline from his brain shouting that he’d been attacked.

Anyone else would’ve gotten an elbow to the solar plexus. At minimum.

Some of it was the result of training. Like the compulsion to scan license plates whenever he was driving. But mostly, it was a survival reflex. Kept him alive. Just like the reflex to sit where he could see all ingresses and egresses of a room. Just like the reflex to scan strangers’ bodies for signs of a gun or a knife.

And the thing was, he couldn’t turn it off. Not at the grocery store. Not on a date with Jessica.

Not even at church.

He always sat towards the back. Not because he wanted to leave early as soon as the sermon was over (although the associate pastor tended to go on and on until everyone worried about missing lunch). But Gil just wanted to keep an eye on the other congregants. Some of them would have him over for dinner, some of them brought him meals after the funeral, some of them texted him prayers every night for a year straight after he lost Jackie. Some of them he’d trust with his life. Others were angry: angry at the ways the world was changing, angry at people who were different. And still others were…well, they were strangers.

One was a man: Caucasian, pale blond hair and sharp blue eyes, mid-forties, about five-eleven, approximately two hundred pounds, middle class by the look of his clothes. He came alone and listened the sermon with no visible sign of interest. He’d sat in the same seat for the past four weeks, even though for _years_ prior that group of seats had belonged exclusively to the Wallace family, who always sat in the back because their identical twin girls never lasted more than half an hour through the service before they got bored and their older brother would have to take them outside for about five minutes to drain their energy before bringing them back.

The Wallaces stopped coming.

So Gil wasn’t exactly feeling very warm-hearted towards this guy as it was. Today, Gil tugged at his sweater—it was getting too warm for sweaters, and the church’s AC wasn’t the most effective—and split his attention between listening to the sermon and watching the stranger. Several times during a sermon, the stranger’s blue eyes would lock onto Gil’s.

Now, Gil knew that the idea that you could always tell when someone was watching you was a myth. Your subconscious might pick up on other signals that something was wrong (something Malcolm could probably explain better than Gil ever could), but you couldn’t actually feel the weight of someone else’s eyes on you. So Gil found it strange that the man always looked directly at him. Not idly scanning the crowd until he stopped because he’d accidentally made eye contact; no, each time, he looked _right at Gil_.

But whenever church was dismissed, the man would leave immediately. Never lingered to talk to anyone. If he had a problem with Gil, Gil wished he’d say so.

Today, Gil was fed up. As soon as the closing prayer ended, he got up and made his way down the aisle to the front. Well, he was waylaid for a second by sweet Mrs. Penn, elderly woman who’d taught Malcolm’s Sunday school class when Jessica asked Gil to watch Malcolm on weekends. (Mrs. Penn had been a bit confused by the boy and utterly unable to answer half his questions, but Malcolm still managed to charm her and she gave him a lollipop every time he came.) Once Gil had gotten free of Mrs. Penn with assurances that both he and Malcolm were doing just fine, he was able to corner the pastor.

“Hello, Gil,” Pastor Rivera said, looking surprised. “It’s been a while.”

Yeah, well…when you were a lieutenant who once needed the reassurances of another man when you couldn’t stop crying because you missed her _so much_ , it was kind of hard to face that man directly afterwards. Gil didn’t say any of that, of course; he got straight to business. “The man who sits in the back, in the Wallaces’ spot. Who is he?”

Pastor Rivera craned his neck.

“Don’t bother,” Gil said. “He’s already left. I just wondered if you know him. Blond hair, blue eyes?” He refrained from giving a more detailed description. Didn’t need the pastor realizing Gil was…well, was using his cop brain, as Jackie used to say.

“Oh, that’s Darren White. He’s fairly new.” Pastor Rivera hesitated. “Why? Is he…?”

This wouldn’t be the first time Gil had raised a red flag about one of the other congregants. He assumed they were both thinking of the time that another man had started coming to church, a man whose gaze lingered too long where it shouldn’t. Gil had warned Rivera, and the pastor and some deacons had kept an eye on the situation, and they’d been primed to move in when he finally cornered a college freshman at the drinking fountain. The girl admitted she was uncomfortable; the man was asked to leave. He never came back.

Pastor Rivera’s eyes searched Gil’s face. “I don’t know,” Gil said quickly. “I haven’t seen anything yet. But…something’s off.”

Pastor Rivera nodded slowly. “Well, he seems nice enough. Some of us helped him out a few days ago. He rented a new place, needed help moving things in.” His forehead creased. “I trust your judgment, Gil, you know that. But I can’t kick someone out without evidence.”

“Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Gil said stiffly.

The pastor’s eyes drifted back towards the seat Darren had claimed. “I hope so, too.”

~

“You want me to…come to church?” Malcolm asked the next day, squinting at Gil like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“I want you to profile someone,” Gil clarified. Malcolm looked like he was about to start in on his not-a-party-trick spiel, so Gil added pointedly, “ _If_ you can.”

That got him. Malcolm lifted his chin. “Oh, I can. I’m on it.”

Gil carefully stifled a smug grin. “I thought you might be.”

And that was how they came to be sitting side-by-side in the back of the church next Sunday. Just like they had when Malcolm was a kid, too intelligent for the flannel-graph Sunday School stories with teachers who couldn’t answer any of his questions. Malcolm always sat between Gil and Jackie so he could whisper to each of them in turn. And after the service, they would always go out for lunch. Pizza, usually, or some other kind of cheap and unhealthy food that Jessica would never feed her children….

Malcolm nudged Gil, breaking him out of his nostalgia. “I take it that’s our guy?” he whispered.

Gil followed his gaze across the church. “That’s him. How’d you know?”

“He’s not listening to the sermon.”

“Neither are we.”

“True, but we’re not tense.”

“ _I’m_ tense.”

“You’re tense,” Malcolm agreed in a low murmur, “but you’re not actively deciding whether or not to run. See how fast his leg is shaking? And how he keeps shifting towards the edge of his seat?”

Fair enough. Gil focused his eyes ahead, letting Malcolm be the one to glance covertly at their suspect. “What are you getting from him?”

“It’s not a party trick, Gil.”

There it was.

“I mean, I can tell you he’s nervous, and he…oh, he keeps glancing over here. So I’m thinking he’s nervous about you. Which raises the question of why he keeps coming to church if…hmm.” Malcolm paused for a second. “Aren’t there two services, now?”

Gil nodded. “Morning and evening.” They’d expanded to two after a wave of college kids looking for the meaning of life finally caused the single service to overflow into the lobby.

“So he’s making the choice to come to the service you attend,” Malcolm said. When Gil glanced over at him, he saw that the kid was chewing on his lower lip. “But he’s sitting alone, which makes it unlikely that he’s here because of friends or family. Is he…is he stalking someone who attends this service, maybe? Hmm.” Malcolm tapped his finger rapidly against his pants. “He’s stalking someone, and it’s not his first time. That’s why he’s nervous about you, specifically. Criminals tend to recognize cops.”

“Any idea who he might be stalking?” Stalkers were more dangerous than most people thought. Obsessions tended to escalate.

“Not yet. I’ll keep looking.”

“Don’t stare,” Gil warned. “We don’t need to scare him off before we figure out what he’s up to.”

“No staring, got it.” Malcolm settled back in the seat, plastering a politely interested expression on his face and turning his gaze towards the pulpit of the church. “See? Not staring.”

“I’m impressed,” Gil said dryly.

“You said he always leaves too soon for you to catch him? Next week I’ll sit closer, see what I can observe. Maybe even talk to him.”

“Won’t he recognize you?”

“Why would he? I’ll wear a different jacket.”

That would definitely not be enough to make anyone overlook Malcolm’s distinctive face, including those wide blue eyes that still managed to make Gil regularly abandon his better judgment. “Try colored contact lenses.”

“That _would_ be a good investment, wouldn’t it?”

Gil coughed skeptically, earning himself a disapproving glare from the woman seated in front of them. He lowered his voice. “I can handle a stalker, kid. Not really the kind of thing that requires your expertise.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Still. I’m sure it’ll be fun.”


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm

“C’mon, Bright. Pick up your feet.”

Gil used to say that all the time when Malcolm was little. At the store, at the park, in the house when he was dawdling getting ready to leave because he wanted to stay with Gil and Jackie just a little longer. _C’mon, kid, pick up your feet._

Today, though, they were at Malcolm’s house, the house where he’d grown up. The place felt somehow bigger than Malcolm was used to, like he was a kid exploring the massive halls, and the lights were dim. They were wandering through the foyer and Malcolm wasn’t sure why. It was just the two of them—no trace of Jessica or Ainsley or Dani or JT.

“Gil?” Malcolm asked uncertainly.

It felt like something was wrong. He just couldn’t pin down _what_.

“C’mon, Bright,” Gil repeated. “Pick up your feet.”

“Coming, I’m coming.” He expected to lead the way into the dining room—maybe Jessica or Ainsley was waiting there for them after all, maybe they were having dinner or something—but instead Gil took a sharp turn towards…towards the basement. “Uh, Gil?”

Gil just gestured for Malcolm to follow. He reached the stairs and took the steps two at a time.

Malcolm was about to follow along when he paused, blinking at a sudden realization. Gil wasn’t wearing his usual suit or warm sweater. He was…he was dressed like a cop. Crisp, dark blue. Utility belt. Gun at his hip. He was dressed like he’d been when he first showed up at Malcolm’s house one cold night, answering a call left by a little kid.

Malcolm’s hand started to tremble at his side. He tried to ignore it as he followed Gil more slowly, more carefully. They reached the basement, dark and dusty and dangerous, and Malcolm figured maybe they’d go into Martin’s old office. Maybe there was evidence there of…of something.

But no, Gil kept going. Kept going to the end of the hall and…and the box was there.

The box was there. Locked up tight.

It _wasn’t supposed to be there_ , they took it away. They swept it for evidence and found none but they still took it away.

A chill like melted ice cubes raced down the back of Malcolm’s neck as Gil knelt in front of the box. Withdrew a key from his pocket. Plunged it into the lock. Opened the box.

“Gil,” Malcolm whispered.

Gil stood up and turned around, but his eyes didn’t meet Malcolm’s. They were aimed somewhere over his shoulder. Gil came close with firm, deliberate steps, and his warm hand found its way to the back of Malcolm’s neck.

“Kid,” Gil whispered. “Do you trust me?”

No? Yes, _yes_ , of course he did. Just…not right now.

Something was wrong.

But Malcolm nodded. This was _Gil_. He trusted Gil. So he didn’t resist when Gil guided him forward. Didn’t resist when Gil took him right up to the edge of the box. And when Malcolm blinked and somehow found himself _in_ the box, he choked on the moldy, dusty smell, but he didn’t scream.

He didn’t scream until the lid slammed shut.

~

Malcolm woke with a gasp, sweating, pulling against his restraints. He spat away the mouth guard and stared wildly around his apartment.

His _apartment_. Not home. No box.

A dream, just a dream. A dream that he _really_ didn’t want to analyze right now.

Groaning, Malcolm flopped back against his sweat-damp pillow. Disgusting. He needed to wash it. What time was it? It was Monday—he had work today. Had to pull himself together enough to not look like an obvious wreck when he showed up at the precinct.

He cracked his eyes back open and stared out the window. The sky was dove-gray, that soft pre-dawn time when everything was peaceful. There was a bird outside, flying past his window. He tracked its graceful movement with his eyes.

And that was why he didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until a hand clamped over his mouth.

Malcolm surged upwards in shock, but his restraints held fast. Two faceless white masks hovered in front of him; the person with a hand over Malcolm’s mouth shoved him back against the bed while the other held up a syringe, glinting in the faint light. The second mask cocked its head like a sculptor deciding where to start cutting. Gloved hands trailed across Malcolm’s arm, dull and rubbery, and the syringe slipped into one of his veins exposed by his struggles.

Malcolm kept thrashing even as his awareness faded. The last thing he felt was the distant sensation of the needle snapping off in his arm before everything was smeared away to nothing.

~

His head throbbed. His eyes were closed. Everything seemed distant and echoey, like he was under water. Or…on another plane of existence. Who knew?

A voice cut through, sharp in his ear. “Wake up.”

Malcolm tried to force his eyes open. They wouldn’t cooperate.

“I _said_ , wake _up!_ ”

Someone slapped him across the face.

Malcolm jolted, heat blooming in his cheek; he finally managed to open his eyes, but he couldn’t move his hands, which were stretched above his head and locked together with sharp metal.

“There we go.” A masked face stared down at him. “Look at those pretty eyes.” A bare hand tapped the side of his face, his temple. The fingers were cold; he blinked reflexively. “Better be careful with those.”

“Wha…?” Malcolm tried to form the question. Couldn’t.

“Don’t pester him.” That was a new voice, a woman’s voice. Casual, maybe slightly annoyed. “Give him space.”

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter.” The mask pulled back.

Malcolm struggled to get his eyes to focus. He saw two of everything, double vision that trembled with his efforts to bring the room into something observable. There was a couch in front of him. Dark, wine-red leather. There was a black end table next to it and some kind of abstract picture hung behind it, nothing but various shades of blues woven together.

He turned. Saw two armchairs of the same style as the couch. There was a window behind them, wide, taking up almost the entire wall. The blinds and curtains were all thrown back, letting the sun stream in, forming a puddle of sunlight on the rug just a few inches to his right.

A _rug_. He was sitting on a _rug_.

This was…what, a _living room?_

His tongue was thick in his mouth. “Where…?” He couldn’t—couldn’t quite get the word out.

“Shh, shh.” The woman crouched in front of him. She wasn’t wearing her mask, letting him see her pale face, carrot-red hair, and bright green eyes. She looked like Anne of Green Gables. She even had _freckles_. She smiled. “Save your breath, hon.”

Nothing was restraining his feet. Nothing was stopping him from just running out of here. Well, nothing except for the mask and his counterpart. Somehow, he didn’t think they’d be too thrilled with his plan.

Wasn’t even a plan, not really. An open doorway led to a kitchen, but beyond that…Malcolm had no idea.

The man—Darren, Malcolm assumed—came to crouch beside the woman. With just one hand, he pressed against Malcolm’s chest…and Malcolm sank backwards, head spinning, muscles like Jell-O.He tried to move his arm, and accomplished little more than the twitch of a finger. He tried to lift his head, but his hair still brushed the ground. He tried to shift his legs, and they didn’t move at all.

Okay. He had no idea what he’d been dosed him with, but it was putting a bit of a damper on his highly intelligent and complex plan of running straight out the nearest door. 

_Gil will find me,_ he told himself firmly. _Gil will find me._

As he lay there limply, heart pounding, he caught sight of something on the ceiling above: a small metal device. It looked like it had been bolted into place.

It was a camera. And the little red light was blinking.


	3. Chapter 3

Gil

Another email.

Sometimes reading emails felt like vacuuming. A tedious thing you had to do regularly. Admittedly, the stakes were higher with emails than vacuuming—no one was potentially going to die or go to prison based on whether or not Gil vacuumed his stairs. But the high stakes of one or two emails did not negate the tediousness of the rest of them.

Still, Gil made a point of going through his inbox each night before he left the office, no matter how much he hated it. He clicked his way through random memos, someone who’d gotten ahold of the office’s mailing list to send out a reminder that her niece was selling Girl Scout cookies, someone else asking to reschedule a meeting for the fourth time, and then…then he stumbled across one from a username that simply said “unknown.”

Gil opened it to see a single line of text.

_You had to involve your boy._

And beneath the text, there was a file attached.

He clicked on the file. The computer scanned for viruses. All clear—the file opened.

And he saw Malcolm lying on a brightly-colored red-and-gold rug, shirt removed, arms stretched above his head. Bleeding from nine different cuts on his chest, arms, and face. The camera was situated above him, possibly on the ceiling of the same room, and remained motionless as a person stepped into frame. A man, whose head turned up towards the camera long enough to show Gil his featureless white mask.

The mask turned back towards Malcolm, and a gloved hand extended, holding a long knife in a light grip. The man knelt at Malcolm’s side and used the knife to draw a careful line across the side of his throat. Blood welled from the slit, a shock of red against white skin.

There was no audio; all Gil could hear was the heavy drumming of his own heartbeat in his ears. He should be scanning the video, looking for clues about location or identity. But he couldn’t—he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Malcolm. Away from his kid.

The man on the screen withdrew the knife almost gently and flicked the blade once, sending a few drops of blood scattering. He spun the knife between his fingers, tilted his head, and stabbed down. The blade plunged deep into Malcolm’s shoulder.

Malcolm’s back arched and his mouth opened, but Gil couldn’t hear the scream.

Gil’s hand was over his own mouth. He should get up. He should call for help. He should hit the streets right now and not stop searching until he found his kid. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything.

The man jerked the knife out, now coated up to the hilt in glistening red. Malcolm’s chest heaved and the camera’s definition was high enough that Gil could easily see the sweat clinging to his hair.

He could see the tear that ran silently down his face.

And that did it: that single tear snapped Gil into action. His hand shot out to hit the space bar and he jumped to his feet. He wanted to yell, wanted to muster the entire force to find Malcolm, but when— _when_ —they found Malcolm, Gil guessed the kid wouldn’t be thrilled about every single one of his colleagues seeing…that.

So Gil shrunk the window and hustled out of the office. He found JT first, by the water cooler, told him to wait in Gil’s office.

JT looked concerned. “You all right, boss?”

“Just wait for me.” He was already hurrying away.

He found Dani in her cubicle. She took one look at him and stood up. “What’s wrong?”

Gil kept his voice low. “Come with me.”

She followed without question—short, quick steps that betrayed her tension, a tension that ratcheted up when they found JT waiting in Gil’s office, a tension that ratcheted up still further when Gil swiftly closed all the blinds.

Her hands were on her hips. “What’s—”

“Just—look at this.” Gil’s voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be, as it should have been, so he carefully did not look to see what reaction his detectives may’ve had to that. He directed them around the desk and heard Dani’s gasp and JT’s muttered curse as they saw Malcolm’s frozen image, stretched out and bleeding. “Look at this, and…help me find him.”

~

Malcolm

“Why…am…I…here?” Malcolm asked, each word a struggle to get out of his mouth. His tongue felt like lead.

He didn't expect a straight answer, and he wasn't disappointed. Darren barely spared him a glance. “You'll find out.”

The woman held out a glass to him. “Drink this, hon.”

Not again. Not again with the water.

“Come on, you must be thirsty.”

Malcolm was. Desperately. But he also knew that eventually the drug he’d been slipped would have to wear off, restoring feeling and motion to his limbs. Nothing was stopping them from injecting him again, but he’d rather not ingest the drug. There’d be no difference in the end result, but he didn’t want them to think he’d been duped. His dignity was all he had left at this point.

So he’d been refusing their offers of water and food for the past…however long he’d been here.

The man seemed annoyed—his movements were harsher than normal—but the woman just looked amused as she brought the glass to her own lips and drained it.

Oh. Probably not spiked, then. His mouth felt like someone had lined it with cotton. He should’ve accepted the drink, if only because the cool sensation would give him something else to focus on besides all the pain, pulsing from what felt like a thousand cuts and slices across his body.

The woman set the glass she’d filled with water back on a table. Malcolm couldn’t see it, but he heard the dull _clink_. “Calm down, Darren,” she murmured to the man.

“It’s been five whole hours,” he snapped back. “They should’ve found us by now.”

Malcolm was so busy reinterpreting the man’s attitude—not annoyed, that was too general, but _impatient_ —that he almost missed the significance of that last statement.

He was waiting for someone. Which couldn’t possibly mean good things for Malcolm.

He closed his eyes. _Gil will find me,_ he reminded himself. _Gil will find me._

“What’s the point of being a cop if you can't find one wimpy hostage?” the man went on, grumbling apparently to himself, but Malcolm’s blood went cold.

They weren’t waiting for reinforcements of some kind. They were waiting for the _NYPD_.

This was a trap, and Malcolm was just bait.

~

Gil

Emails could almost always be traced. You needed a warrant to go through the email service, technically, but the last thing Gil cared about right now was technicalities. It took several hours, but he was finally able to convince an employee of the service to track down the location where the account had been formed. He’d be in for it if any of his superiors found out, but that wasn’t Gil’s concern.

The account had been formed at the home of Mr. Darren White.

“Bank records, phone records,” Gil barked at Dani and JT, and while they were working, he called Pastor Rivera to get the address of that apartment Darren just started renting. Once he had the address, he texted it to Dani and JT but told them to keep hunting through records, to leave no stone unturned. If they all committed to chasing a single lead that turned out to be false, and if they lost Malcolm because of it—

No, couldn’t happen. Not an option. Gil would not allow it. Trusting Dani and JT to do their job, Gil set out on his own to hunt down the address.

The apartment that he found was suspiciously inconspicuous. It was one complex squished between two other complexes, and everything looked the same. All an ugly, fading, blue-gray color. All sporting a fake balcony. Gil had probably been to twenty apartments just like this over the years for dinner or to watch the game with friends.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was in the wrong place. Surely the neighbors would hear the—the screams. This was New York and sometimes New Yorkers astounded Gil with their selfishness, but even they wouldn’t ignore the sounds of—of _torture_. Would they?

It didn’t matter. Now that he was here, he needed to rule the location out entirely. He kept his hand near his firearm as he took the stairs to Darren’s apartment, stepping lightly on the balls of his feet, making as little noise as possible.

He paused outside the door, its white paint dirty and chipped, and listened. There was movement inside, and hushed voices. Too quiet for Gil to make anything out. He took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles on the door. “NYPD, open up!”

“It’s unlocked!” a man shouted carelessly from inside.

In all Gil’s years of being on the force, he had _never_ gotten that response. Either these people had absolutely nothing to hide, or…they were waiting for him.

It was true that if Malcolm pulled a stunt like this, Gil would bench him for a week. (Well, he’d try to.) But one of the advantages of being a lieutenant was that you’d earned the privilege of making stupid decisions.

And Malcolm needed him.

Drawing his weapon, Gil opened the door. He scanned the front hall—nothing important, boring, normal—and stepped inside. “Who’s there? Identify yourselves!”

No answer.

The hairs rose on the back of Gil’s neck. He reached for his radio. “10-10F,” he whispered, followed by the address. Maybe he’d need backup after all.

He crept forward, checking each nook and shadowy corner. He got nothing unusual, nothing suspicious. And all sounds of movement had stopped. The place may as well have been abandoned. He passed an empty kitchen—clean but not spotless, with plates drying on the counter—and a tiny, empty dining room.

Through the doorway from the dining room into the next room, he saw something that looked like a foot.

It took all of Gil’s training and experience to keep from rushing in headlong. He kept his gun low, ready to raise it and fire at a moment’s notice, and pressed against the doorframe, trying to see as far in the room as possible before exposing himself.

He saw Malcolm. He saw his kid, on the red-and-gold rug in the supine position, pale and bloodied. Malcolm’s arms were stretched back behind his head, probably secured to something out of Gil’s line of sight. Gil saw no weapons or hostiles. Aside from his kid, the scene seemed abandoned.

Everything in Gil screamed at him to race forward, to not bother with clearing the room, to just get to his kid and deal with the consequences later. But right now, he was Malcolm’s best shot at getting out of there. Which meant he needed to be careful.

He stepped up to the threshold, the toe of his shoe just barely crossing into the other room. Living room, it looked like. All parts of the room that he could see were clear. Were the people hiding deliberately? Gil’s heart pounded. He kept his finger on the trigger.

He breached the doorway.

“Stop—don’t move!”

Gil spun around. A man and a woman stood in front of the window, backlit by the sun but both holding weapons. A semi-automatic pistol in his hands, a shotgun in hers. The semi was aimed at Gil, but the woman was pointing the shotgun calmly at Malcolm.

“Gil,” Malcolm breathed, voice so weak that Gil could barely hear it. “Go away…”


	4. Chapter 4

Gil

Two of them. Gil wasn’t slow, but there was no way he could incapacitate them both before they got a shot off. So Gil held perfectly still, trying not to scare them. Scared people were dangerous. He kept his voice level. “What do you want?”

Between the glare of the sun and what looked like a mask, Gil couldn’t see the man’s face. But his voice was exactly what Gil had expected. “You had to drag your friend into this. You just had to.”

“Your problem is with me. Not the kid.”

“I know.” The man’s voice was colder than dry ice. “ _Trust me_ , I know.”

Malcolm made a muted noise of distress.

“What did I do?”Gil demanded. “What did I do that has you so pissed off, you’ll kidnap someone _else?_ ”

The man jabbed at Gil with the barrel of his gun. “Put your weapon on the ground! Do it now!”

Gil kept his voice calm despite his pounding heart. “I just want to talk.”

“ _Now!_ ” he shouted, and the woman’s finger twitched on the trigger of the shotgun.

“All right!” Gil crouched to set his gun carefully on the floor, then stood back up. “Look, just…tell me what you want, and we can figure out a way to—”

“To what?” The man ripped off his mask, revealing Darren’s face underneath, his expression no longer placid but furious. “Undo what you’ve done? Change the fact that one wrong call from you left a murderer to walk free? Bring my daughter back?”

Gil felt cold. The cases he’d gotten wrong were too many to count, too many to now narrow down which mistake was the source of this man’s anger. He had no idea what this man was referring to. But ignorance was not bliss.

He spoke quietly. “How old was she?”

“Don’t!” The man took a step forward; the woman spat a warning at him and he stepped back, regaining a healthy distance between himself and Gil. “Just—don’t.”

Gil’s mind raced. He was no profiler and Malcolm was terrifyingly silent, but years of experience were telling him that this man wouldn’t be reasoned with. He’d kidnapped Malcolm, apparently on a whim, but was committed enough to the operation to have brought deadly weapons and a partner. Not to mention the fact that he’d filmed Malcolm and sent Gil the file like some twisted version of a ransom note.

But it wasn’t a ransom note. It was nothing like that. Because Gil had nothing to offer this man.

His daughter was already dead.

This was about revenge.

Gil set his shoulders back. “All right, you’ve got my attention. Now let this man go.”

Darren’s face tightened in sudden anger. “Was _I_ assaulted and murdered by a man who should’ve been in jail? Was _I_ cut to shreds, whipped for some freak’s sadistic pleasure, and suffocated with my own jacket? Was _I_ —” He cut himself off and bit down hard on his trembling lower lip. Shook his head. “No, Lieutenant Arroyo. My daughter was the one who suffered. And so it’s only fair that your friend suffers today.” He drew a deep breath and a new, deadly light filled his eyes. “And it’s only fair that you see that you, and only you, are responsible.”

Gil’s heart dropped into stomach as he understood what he was about to be asked to do. Torture Malcolm? He couldn’t. Not possible. It was asking too much.

But there was a shotgun aimed at Malcolm's face. At this range, he’d be dead with one pull of the trigger. At least, maybe, if Gil seemed to go along with it…at least then Gil would be able to maintain some modicum of control.

But before he could move, a siren blared outside.

“Did you call for backup?” Darren snarled. “Call them off! Call them off or he dies, you both die, I’ll take the fall, I don’t care—”

“I’m calling them off!” Gil spat. “Don’t shoot. I’m drawing my radio, not a weapon.” He reached for his belt, held up his radio, and spoke clearly. “This is Arroyo. Belay that. Stand down.”

“ _You sure?_ ” dispatch responded.

Gil glowered across at Darren. “Absolutely.”

Darren held his breath until the sirens switched off. “Give me your phone.”

Gil reached his hand into his pocket.

“Wait!” Darren darted forward, running his hands over the outside of Gil’s clothes in a late pat-down. Once satisfied that Gil had no other weapons, he accepted Gil’s phone and passed it to his partner, who slipped it into a pocket.

Then Darren kicked Gil’s gun aside and drew a knife, pressing it into Gil’s hand. “Let’s get started,” he murmured. “Mark him.”

~

Malcolm

Calm, he had to stay calm. Darren didn’t want Malcolm to die, which meant that all Gil had to do was play along with his revenge fantasy. It wasn’t really asking that much.

Well. That wasn’t accounting for what would happen when Darren realized that letting Gil and Malcolm walk free guaranteed his arrest. But the manic glint in his eyes told Malcolm that maybe he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.

Maybe.

It was a gamble, sure. But for now, playing along would buy them time, maybe time enough for Darren or his friend to make a mistake or for Dani and JT to find them.

( _Why_ had Gil come here alone? Dani and JT were on the case, weren’t they?)

“Gil,” Malcolm managed to rasp, voice barely there at all. It still made Gil jump. “Just do it.” The paralytic certainly hadn’t stopped him from feeling pain so far, but his fingers felt numb from loss of circulation, numb against whatever he’d been shackled to, so that was a plus. “It’s fine.”

Of course it was fine. This was Gil. And it wasn’t like Malcolm hadn’t been hurt worse before.

A muscle flashed in Gil’s jaw as he stared down Darren.

“Gil,” Malcolm breathed, hoping Gil would see confidence in his eyes instead of fear. “It’s okay.”

Finally, Gil curled his fingers around the handle of the knife and knelt next to Malcolm, close enough for Malcolm to feel his warmth seeping between them. With one hand, he brushed Malcolm’s hair out of his face. With the other, he rested the knife lightly against Malcolm’s bicep.

“Hurry,” Darren snapped, leaning over Gil’s shoulder to touch the barrel of the gun against his head.

Malcolm saw Gil tense. Darren had made a mistake getting so close and Malcolm realized Gil thought he could disarm his enemy before Darren fired a shot.

But the woman was still aiming the loaded shotgun at Malcolm.

So Gil did nothing, except dig the tip of the blade into Malcolm’s arm.

And it barely even hurt. There was so much adrenaline coursing through Malcolm’s veins, and besides, he’d already been stabbed plenty of times today, so it wasn’t like—

“More,” Darren ordered, hovering closer. “His neck, cut his neck.”

Gil pulled the knife out. “ _Kill_ him?”

Darren’s mouth twisted. “If you want. But at least leave a scar.”

Malcolm saw Gil swallow, hard, as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He tried to smile encouragingly, but Gil was avoiding his eyes, aiming his own gaze at the floor.

Pressing his lips into a thin, pale line, Gil set the blade at Malcolm’s throat. One small, slow twist of his wrist caused skin to split.

Malcolm sucked in a breath.

Darren’s eyes were wild. “Deeper, deeper!”

Gil’s other hand came around to cup the back of Malcolm’s head, agony written across his face. He pressed harder.

Malcolm flinched despite all his efforts to stay still.

Gil mouthed a silent, _I’m sorry._

Warm blood ran down Malcolm’s neck, but it was fine, that was fine, he’d lost plenty of blood today, so what was a little more? Never mind that his traitorous hand was trembling, each vibration causing his wrist to chafe against the sharp restraints.

“Perfect,” Darren murmured.

Gil seized the chance to pull back, wiping the knife against his pants. “All right, you’ve had your fun, now—”

“Break his fingers.”

Gil’s head jerked up. “What?”

Darren licked saliva from his lips. “Start with the index fingers. We’ll go from there.”

Okay. Malcolm wasn’t so sure he was up for this part, and he knew one look at him would reveal his fear to Gil. He deliberately closed his eyes.

There was a long pause during which Malcolm couldn’t hear anything except the hum of a distant AC unit. Then Gil swore under his breath and crouched next to Malcolm.

His voice was so quiet, Malcolm could barely hear it: “Blink once for yes, twice if you have another plan.”

What plan? Malcolm’s hands were still locked above his head and he couldn’t move his legs. Fighting back his rising panic, he blinked once. Giving permission.

“Okay.” Gil’s voice was steady in that special way that meant he was terrified. Malcolm heard it once when Ainsley got lost during a trip to the zoo, and again when Malcolm had his first night terror at Gil’s house, and he’d heard it the whole week leading up to Jackie’s death. “It’ll be over quick, I promise.”

Malcolm’s stupid hand wouldn’t stop shaking.

Gil reached up, his rougher hands brushing against Malcolm’s. Peeling Malcolm’s fingers apart, he got a solid grip on the index finger of Malcolm’s left hand. Gil’s own hand was trembling along with Malcolm’s.

Malcolm screwed his eyes shut.

_Snap._

The pain was—it was _there_ , obviously, but it wasn’t that bad, nothing unbearable, and Malcolm’s first reaction was to sag in relief.

Gil hurried on to his right hand.

_Snap._

Malcolm gritted his teeth. The pain in his left finger was growing, building. Still nothing he couldn’t handle, nothing compared to what he’d done to his _hand_ , for instance, but…but now the pain was growing in his right hand, two, and both hands were shaking and he couldn’t stop it. The restraints dug deeper into his skin and there was no distraction—no serial killers to chase, nowhere to run, and he was well aware that the adrenaline currently sustaining him would inevitably fade, leaving him to the full potency of his injuries.

He tried to send his attention elsewhere. Not into his head (that was a dangerous place), but he focused on the weird, itchy sensation of streaks of blood drying on his skin.

Gil got to his feet and straightened up. “Are we done here?” His voice was rough, a lieutenant burying a thousand emotions.

Malcolm could barely see Darren, but he what he could see made it clear that nothing about the situation was appeasing his rage. If anything, his emotions were _escalating_. Darren started pacing, squeezing his pistol tighter and tighter in his hand, knuckles going white over the grip.

“Listen—” Gil started to say.

“Wait!” Darren kept his gun trained on Gil as he backed quickly across the room, then rooted around with one hand in the end table by the couch, finally withdrawing something and thrusting it into Gil’s hands.

A whip.

Darren’s frenzied eyes searched Gil’s face. “Turn him over.”

Gil’s right arm jerked at his elbow like he was one second away from throwing a punch.

“Do it now!” Darren screamed.

Gil’s face was set like stone. He knelt next to Malcolm once more.

“It’s okay,” Malcolm tried to tell him.

“It’s not,” Gil said, utterly emotionless, and rolled Malcolm until he was face-down on the carpet.


	5. Chapter 5

Gil

This was his fault. This was all his fault. _Gil_ brought Malcolm into this mess with Darren. But it didn’t even stop there, did it? Gil dragged Malcolm back into profiling. Gil made Malcolm hunt down killers when he _knew_ the kid’s mental health was a tripwire—one tug away from exploding. And when Malcolm started going back to see his father, Gil only ever put up token resistance.

And now look.

His boy’s arms were twisted above his head, fingers mangled, blood trickling down his wrist from the razer edges of his restraints. His chest and neck bled from almost a hundred different cuts, and the wounds on his shoulder and his neck would scar. At least he’d be able to hide the scar on his shoulder under his shirts, but the one on his neck would be there for all to see. Gil would never _not_ see it.

Malcolm’s back, however, was still unharmed.

The whip was a ranged weapon, with tiny barbs at the ends. Gil itched to strike out with Darren, to snap the whip against his hands until he dropped his weapon, to force him to the ground and put the barrel of a gun in his back until he was sobbing in terror—

But his partner still aimed her shotgun at Malcolm. And if Gil closed his eyes, he could just as easily imagine Malcolm’s head blown apart, studded with tiny balls of lead.

Either Gil took them both out, or he continued allowing himself to be a pawn, telling himself he was buying time, telling himself that at some point, something would change. At some point, he’d have an opportunity.

He was finding it harder and harder to believe himself.

Daren gestured with his gun. “Now, do it now.”

Gil raised his arm. He knew the general motion he needed to perform, but he’d never exactly…he’d never exactly _done_ this before. He brought his arm down, and the whip fell limply across Malcolm’s back.

Malcolm’s body still jolted as if he’d been electrocuted. He let out a slow breath—Gil could see the muscles of his back shifting under his skin.

“What’s wrong with you?” Darren spat. “Do it _right_.”

It was like fishing. Like casting a line. Gil brought his arm up again, and this time he snapped it on the downward motion. The whip sailed through the air so fast he heard a whistle. It lashed across Malcolm’s back, the barbs catching in his skin and tearing.

Malcolm’s shocked whimper was muffled by the rug.

Darren watched with cold rage. “Again.”

So Gil did it again, ears ringing.

And again.

And again.

Until rivulets of blood streamed down Malcolm’s back.

Until Malcolm stopped flinching, stopped making noise, and simply lay there motionless.

And until Gil realized that he’d never be able to face himself in a mirror again.

On and on it went, until Darren suddenly darted in and grabbed Gil’s wrist. Gil was _this close_ to throwing an elbow up to crunch his nose when Darren blurted out: “What’s that?”

Past the ringing in Gil’s ears, he heard a sharp knock at the door.

Darren’s fingers tightened, vicelike. “Who’s that?”

“How should I—”

Dani’s voice rang through the apartment. “NYPD, please open the door.”

And suddenly, the barrel of Darren’s gun was pressed against Gil’s temple and he was screeching in Gil’s face: “You called for backup? You called for _backup_?”

Gil hadn’t, but he knew Darren wouldn’t believe any argument. He also knew that Dani could certainly hear the yelling, which meant she was about two seconds from breaking through the door, which meant everything was about to go up in flames.

Gil dropped straight to the ground—the gun fired—the bullet flew over his head. Gil snapped his arm and the whip cut into the woman’s hands as she pulled the trigger and the shotgun discharged. Gil rolled sideways into Darren’s legs, knocking him to the ground, just as Dani hurtled into the room, skidding to a stop with JT on her tail.

“Hands in the air!” she shouted, gun aimed at the woman. “Hands in the air where I can see them!”

On his knees, Gil panted for breath while Darren and his partner slowly raised their hands. JT swooped down to cuff them both while Dani kept her weapon raised and ready. When both hostiles were secured, she jerked her head at Malcolm. “He okay?”

Somehow, that single question was enough to break through Gil’s buzz of adrenaline. He only felt a hint of the weight that was sure to come, but it was enough that he had to blink back emotion before saying, “I think he’s out.”

JT took over guarding the perps while Dani called for paramedics, then crouched next to Malcolm, inspecting his injuries. Biting her lip, she raised her eyes to Gil. “What happened?”

He just shook his head.

~

Malcolm

Malcolm woke to…pain. That was pretty much the only sensation in his awareness. Pain, everywhere.

Not his legs, actually. They’d been spared. But that had the odd effect of making everything else feel _worse_.

He was lying on his stomach in the hospital bed, which was a new experience. But he shifted his arm once, and the muscles in his back twinged, and the skin of his back shrieked, and he immediately understood why the hospital staff had arranged him this way.

“Don’t try to move,” a voice said, a voice so strained and raspy that Malcolm didn’t realize it was Gil until he turned his head to actually see the lieutenant sitting in a chair by the bed.

“Gil,” Malcolm croaked, a bit surprised that his own voice was just as unrecognizable.

“Kid, I’m—” Gil’s voice broke. His hands were clasped so tightly in his lap that he might as well be holding down the pin of a grenade.

Malcolm realized with dawning horror that Gil was going to start apologizing. “No,” he tried to say, “don’t—”

“I’m so sorry.” And with that, Gil crumpled in on himself, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

Oh no, oh no.

“I should’ve—I shouldn’t have—”

“They had us at _gunpoint_ ,” Malcolm exclaimed.

Suddenly lifting his head, Gil dragged his hands away. “And if our positions were reversed, what would you have done?”

Malcolm blinked.

“You would’ve—you would’ve done your profiling thing, and never—you would’ve never had to—”

“You don’t know that,” Malcolm interrupted desperately. “I don’t think it would’ve worked. Revenge was the most important thing in the world to Darren—”

“Then you would’ve profiled his partner, and gotten her to lower her weapon just long enough—”

Well…maybe. “You don’t know that,” Malcolm insisted.

“At least you would have _tried!_ ” Gil burst out. “You would have done _something_.”

Oh.

Gil drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know, kid. I just…keep thinking about it.”

“…About what?” Malcolm asked tentatively.

Gil was quiet for so long that, for a second, Malcolm thought he wouldn’t answer. “What Darren said,” he began at last, staring at Malcolm with an intensity that was actually unnerving. “He said I dragged you into it. And I did. His problem was never with you, it was always with me.”

Malcolm started shaking his head. “I volunteered, I—”

“Because I asked for your help.”

So? “Gil, I’m a _profiler_. It’s what I _do_.”

Gil’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And that’s my fault, too.”

Malcolm coughed incredulously. “I don’t remember you forcing me to go to Quantico. Maybe I would’ve gotten better grades if you actually dragged me to class, but—”

“After that.” Gil’s eyes dimmed even under the harsh fluorescent lights. “After you left the FBI. I could’ve left you alone, let you rebuild your life away from murder—”

Malcolm groaned. “Don’t start, you sound like Jessica—”

“Maybe Jessica is right!”

Malcolm froze, wide-eyed.

Gil wet his lips. “I’m sorry. I know how much profiling means to you, kid. Believe me, I _know_. But…I called you in on a case that was a copycat of your father’s, and I _knew_ it would get to you, and…are you gonna sit here and tell me it didn’t?”

Malcolm remembered. He remembered the horror of putting the pieces together. He remembered shrinking under the stares of his teammates when he told them the killer was copying the Surgeon—even before his teammates knew Malcolm was the Surgeon’s son. He remembered the night terrors, always bad but now worse. He remembered admitting, in front of Dani, that he was the Surgeon’s son. He remembered goading the killer to turn the methods on him.

Malcolm searched for the right words. “I’m glad you brought me on. This team is…” He sniffed. It sounded so stupid to say his team was his family, but… “This team is everything to me.”

Gil took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “And I’d rather have you on this team than anyone else. I swear it. I just…” He averted his gaze. “I wish I’d slowed down. I wish I’d put you first from the beginning. But I didn’t, and I…I can’t say enough how sorry I am.”

Frowning, Malcolm cocked his head as well as he could from the awkward angle. He thought he knew what Gil was saying, but it was still confusing. Maybe because he didn’t really want to hear it.

“You said once,” Gil began, stilted, “that I’m the reason you’re…” He trailed off.

His own words, scared and hurt and angry, echoed in his mind. _I'm like this because of Martin Whitly, because of John Watkins, because of you!_ Malcolm’s stomach twisted. “No, no, no, I _told_ you, I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t you?” Gil asked heavily.

Well…maybe.

Maybe a little.

But only a little.

“I’m always gonna be a profiler,” Malcolm said quietly.

“I know, kid.” Wetting his lips, Gil stood up. “And I’m proud of you. But…my apology stands.”

Something was stinging behind Malcolm’s eyes. He blinked once, hard, and managed to say, “Your apology is accepted.”

Gil apparently needed to hear it.

Gil’s smile was small and still slightly sad. Tucking the smile away, he changed the subject. “We still need to talk about the video. Dani got the camera from the apartment, all the footage is in evidence. But it’s…”

Bad. It was bad. It would make Gil’s life a paperwork hell at _best_ , and as for Malcolm…well, he really didn’t want to think about faceless higher-ups scrutinizing a video of Malcolm getting torn up and broken.

Some of that must’ve shown on Malcolm’s face, because Gil’s expression softened. “But maybe we don’t need to talk about that right now.”

They’d have to, though. If they wanted an indictment against Darren White and his accomplice, they’d have to talk about it.

But…yeah. Maybe not right now.

Leaning in, Gil cupped Malcolm’s cheek, then rested his forehead lightly against Malcolm’s. He breathed out, like he was expelling every mistake and every regret, leaving room for nothing but the future. Then he stood up again. “Get some rest, kid. I’ll be here when you wake up.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay okay okay, I knew I needed a Gil POV at the end, but I was up against a deadline, but I got permission to add a chapter, so, um...here... *flings the chapter into the void*

Gil

If Gil hadn’t watched the nurse administer the drugs himself, he would’ve been surprised when Malcolm actually followed instructions and drifted back into sleep. As it was, he knew Malcolm didn’t really have a choice.

(Part of him couldn’t help but wonder whether Malcolm’s willingness to accept Gil’s apology was also the result of the drugs.)

Shoving that thought aside (for now; he had no doubt it would come back tonight at three in the morning), Gil took a second just to stare down at his kid, and wondered if he would ever be free of the phantom feel of the knife or whip in his hand. Wondered if he’d ever be able to look past the scar across Malcolm’s throat.

Maybe Malcolm really could forgive him. But he certainly could not forgive himself.

Feeling his eyes start to sting, Gil slipped quickly but quietly out of the room, planning on finding the nearest exit that would take him to his car where at least he could have some privacy to—

“Gil?”

His guts twisted and a thick lump rose in his throat. He turned slowly, and there she was: beautiful as always in a royal blue dress with her hair swept back over her shoulders. He wished he were looking at anyone else.

“Gil!” Without any warning, Jessica flung herself at him, arms wrapped fiercely around him. “Dani told me what happened. I can’t thank you enough.”

His lungs turned to stone. “…What?”

She pulled back just enough to stare at him with those wide, deep blue eyes. “For rescuing him.”

She didn’t _know_. “I didn’t,” he said roughly. “Dani, JT, they…they rescued him.”

Her eyes were kind and knowing, and her hand cupped his cheek. “You’re too modest. You’re their lieutenant—that team would follow you anywhere. Besides, Dani said you were there.”

He swallowed hard. Jessica would learn the truth eventually. If all else failed, the case would go to trial and she’d watch the footage along with the rest of New York. “Jessica, I…”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

She pulled back more. “For what? What happened?”

“I…I went on my own.” And if he’d just _waited_ , if he’d gone with his _team_ , they could’ve rescued Malcolm together and none of…none of the rest of it would’ve happened.

(Or maybe not. They’d wanted Gil, after all. They’d wanted their revenge. Maybe they would’ve killed Malcolm if Gil had been late, maybe they would’ve found a way to hold Gil _and_ Dani and JT hostage while Gil tortured Malcolm, and no one would’ve come to rescue them. Maybe. Maybe.)

“I went on my own,” he repeated, forcing himself not to look away from Jessica’s fearful gaze. “I got their first. And…and the perps were waiting. For me. Specifically.”

Her eyes widened. “But—”

“Malcolm was bait,” Gil said heavily. “No, not just bait. He was…” Gil couldn’t take it anymore. He looked away, stared up at the tiled ceiling above them. “They were using him to get to me. They wanted me to know that I was responsible for everything that had happened to him. And to drive home the point, they—” The words stuck in his throat.

Jessica’s hand slid down, over his shoulder and down his arm to grasp one of his. Only then did he notice that it was shaking.

He freed his hand from her grasp and forced the words out between gritted teeth: “They held guns to both of us and made me torture him.”

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“He’d already been cut, but the reason he’s in the hospital? The reason he can’t even lie on his _back?_ That’s because of _me_ , Jess. Because of what I did to him.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned her head. A tear still escaped to roll down her cheek.

Any other day, he’d want to reach out and wipe it away. But he couldn’t—he couldn’t touch her. Not after what he’d done to her son.

Gil rubbed at his own eyes. “And I just—I can’t say enough how sorry I am. I should’ve—I should’ve thought of something, I should’ve—”

“You did what you thought you had to,” Jessica told him, but she still wouldn’t look at him.

Gil couldn’t take it anymore. He started yelling: “But what’s the point of being a _lieutenant_ and leading a _team_ if I let them manipulate me into hurting the _one person_ I—” He clamped his mouth shut, eyes burning.

Jessica’s shoulders hitched in a sudden, bitten-off sob. Biting her lip so hard that it looked about to bleed, she finally raised her pain-filled eyes to Gil. “Did you talk to him?”

Gil was a bit thrown by that. Where was she going with this? “Did I…?”

“You came out of his room just now.” Jessica’s voice was tight. “Did you talk to him?”

“I—yes. A little. He’s awake, so I—”

“Did you apologize? For everything?”

Gil was back to staring at the ceiling again. It was far safer than whatever he might see if he looked into her eyes. “Of course, Jess, but he didn’t—he wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?”

Gil clenched his jaw. “He doesn’t understand.”

Her scoff was low and bitter. “He studied psychology at Harvard, Gil. I’m very sure he understands.”

“But he didn’t—” Gil exhaled harshly.

“Didn’t what?” Jessica took a step closer, forcing Gil to take a step back. “Yell at you? Recoil from you in horror? Of _course_ he didn’t, he knows—”

“He didn’t _blame me_ ,” Gil burst out. “And not just for this. For the fact that I dragged him back into the world of serial killers in the first place when he was _this close_ to walking away from it!”

There. He knew Jessica’s thoughts on Malcolm’s chosen profession. If anything would set her firmly against Gil, it was the reminder that all the turmoil Malcolm had been through not just recently but since joining the NYPD was Gil’s fault.

“Oh,” Jessica said, very quietly.

Gil took a deep, shaky breath, and waited for her judgment.

She sniffed hard. “Well. Did you tell him all that, too?”

“Of course I did, but you know him. He doesn’t listen.”

“Oh?” She pressed her lips into a thin line. Gil knew that look well. It was the Whitly look of determination, and it never meant good things for him. “Let me guess, he forgave you?”

“He didn’t think there was anything to forgive,” Gil muttered. “The best I could do was get him to accept my apology.”

“Well, then.” Jessica smoothed down her dress. “Are you going to let his judgment stand?”

His mouth opened soundlessly, helplessly.

She folded her arms tightly across herself, almost hugging herself. “You may think you failed him, Gil, but I failed him worse. A thousand times worse. But by some miracle, he still wants me in his life. He still—he still sees me as his mother.” She gave a small, slightly stunned shake of her head. “It would make more sense for him to hate me, but it doesn’t. It would be easier for me, some days when all I feel is the guilt, to walk away. But that would be unbe _lievably_ selfish. Do you hear me, Gil?”

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t say or do anything.

Her hands dropped to her side, her chin lifted, and her eyes locked onto his. “He _wants you_ , Gil. He wants you in his life. He wants you as his boss. He wants you as his _friend_. And he wants you as his—” She cut herself off. Another tear ran down her face, dropping onto the collar of her dress. “You’re his _father_. In the only way that matters. So _accept_ that you’re forgiven and don’t you _dare_ walk away from him now.”

Gil couldn’t breathe, relief and resistant guilt battling it out in his chest.

“Now.” Jessica set her shoulders back. “I’m going in there to see my son. Are you coming with me?”

She held out her hand.

With great effort, Gil took a deep breath.

And then he took her hand.


End file.
